


To Regret the Circumstances

by armandjolras, Stormyflower



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Epistolary, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24017224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armandjolras/pseuds/armandjolras, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormyflower/pseuds/Stormyflower
Summary: At the height of the Great War, Bossuet writes Musichetta from a field hospital, where he has met a young medic named Joly.
Relationships: Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Joly/Bossuet Laigle, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Joly/Musichetta
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	To Regret the Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Brief mentions of wartime violence, injuries, and disease

01 January 1918

Dear Musichetta,

Happy New Year! 

You’ll never guess where I am. I’ll give you three guesses, for three always was the most perfect number. I’m not back home, nor have I been taken prisoner, nor am I dining with the Prime Minister… do you give up? I’m in hospital! My luck -- or lack thereof -- has finally caught up to me. The battalion was out for a little early-morning reconnaissance when the enemy hit us squarely with a grenade, and now the battalion is no more. It’s a bit odd, really; when I woke, I thought I was dead. Perhaps I am.

To cut to the chase, I have what the doctors call ‘soft-tissue penetrating trauma’, which is a nice way of saying that my leg has been bloody well torn to shreds. But don’t fret, my dear, for the charm of my visiage has not been damaged, nor has my snowy complexion been sullied by the chlorine gas. Some of the men in here weren’t so lucky. I saw a chap yesterday who was burned so badly, I could hardly tell that his face was a face at all.

With all this moaning, you’d think I’m writing a penny dreadful! Honestly, the field hospital’s not so bad; it’s really quite relaxing. I spend my days in bed, watching the nurses and medics scurry back and forth, bringing patients in and out. To put your mind at ease, none of the nurses hold a candle to you; they’re all old and stern as schoolmarms. Besides, it’s a fellow that looks after me most of the time. I do say, he’s the funniest fellow I’ve ever seen. He’s about five foot tall, plus an extra few inches of fluffy hair, and he always has a stuffy nose. He must not be a very good medic if he can’t even cure his own cold, and I daresay he makes it worse, with all the ointment he blots onto it.

I wish you could see him, for I think you would laugh -- he’s quite a picture. He’s one of those types they call ‘old souls’; he sits by my bed with his collar turned up, telling me about his family farm. His name is Joly, by the way, and he’s French, though he speaks English brilliantly, and he’s always saying that I don’t pronounce his name quite right. Apparently I draw out the L too long, or something like that.

I think I’ve talked about myself quite long enough; you’re probably bored to tears. How has life been for the most beloved soprano in the Triple Entente? Hope your strained voice is healing up; I’ve heard that a copious amount of fine wine works wonders for the vocal cords. Will you be travelling in the coming weeks, and when, my love, will you return to Saint-Denis? When you do, you must give a private concert at the ADS. I’ve already told Joly all about you, and he is counting on hearing you sing.

Ta-ta, and au revoir (see, I told you my French was improving!),

Bossuet

  
  
  


07 January 1918

My dear Bossuet!

You cannot imagine how glad I was to receive your letter! It has brightened my day considerably. I had been cooped up in a camp somewhere for a few days and it had grown quite dreary. All these lonely, desperate French boys. So your letter came as a welcome reprieve and a breath of fresh air!

Although, you broke your promise to me, dear boy! You told me you wouldn’t get hurt at least till next Christmas! Quite rude, really! But then, sometimes I think that’s all you soldier boys are good for -- dying. All these good people wasted on guns and grenades and what not.

I’m sorry. At least your lovely face is intact. Of all the hopeful little faces among your camps and settlements, it is still my favorite so far, so take better care of it in the future, yes? I should be terribly angry if something were to happen to it and I have been told that I can be quite frightening when I am angered. So don’t! Don’t!!

I held one of your type today, he was bleeding quite badly from a hole somewhere near his chest (I do not really know about the details; the nurse, Cosette, called me only in the last few minutes -- apparently his last wish was for his gal to hold him and she thought I might soothe him. Suffice to say that he was on his dying breath.) and asked to lay on my lap. So I held him and I looked down on him and I kept seeing your face and getting scared. He wasn’t really very much like you, much less good looking and nothing of your cheerful complexion. Quite delusional, really, feverish and already gone behind his eyes several moments before he was actually gone. I sang to him but I don’t really think he heard me. 

Enough of that, though. It is already dreary enough in here! And the smell is just horrible, most of the time. Honestly, Europeans, don’t you wash? I almost envy your doctor friend his stuffy nose (or is he a nurse, I don’t quite remember). He sounds positively delightful! Please give him my best greetings and thank him for looking after a certain soldier boy I like. Tell him, also, to keep you away from all and any stairs, ladders or too-steep hillsides, I do not think they are at all good for you. 

My voice has improved a little, though it is still not up to the standard I like to hold it to. My admiring listeners reassure me that it is well enough to their liking, though. I sang long into the evening yesterday, as we were sure that there were no enemy troops near. They seemed to like me. Or maybe they just liked staring at my body and were enjoying the rather scandalously low cut costume. Nevermind though, tailoring is an art too. 

I leave you with that image and beg you to keep to the bed as long as you can, so I can sleep at night!

Bisous,

M.

P.S: Tell your Jollly to give you enough blankets and the best hospital food they have!

  
  
  


09 January, 1918

Cher Bossuet!

I know it has probably not been enough time for my last letter to reach you; I don’t quite know how the mail works in this strange country and it is war, after all. But I have been feeling a little homesick lately and I thought I would write to you anyways. 

My show this afternoon was quite delightful; we found a few tables to make a stage and I had convinced Cosette to sing a few bars with me! She was a great hit. For somebody so shy in front of a crowd she makes an amazing performer. Perhaps a bit timid, but with a lovely voice. 

I don’t think I told you quite enough about Cosette in my last, she has been the highlight of my days here. As you know, she is a nurse and as far as I can tell a very competent one (better than the camp doctor, in my opinion, but do not tell him!). She tells me she learned from her mother, who, if I didn’t misunderstand the whisperings around the camp, was a whore, but apparently a whore with extensive medical knowledge. What do I know; it probably is very useful to be a nurse-whore. Or whore-nurse. I can’t imagine the practice is very sanitary. 

Cosette takes the cat-calls and the nasty rumours like a queen. You two would make quite the pair! She has your kind eyes and general happiness -- I admire her ability to smile at catastrophes and horrors almost as much as I admire yours. She’s quite the little thing, blonde like an angel, the soldiers were delighted when she wore her hair open today. Usually it’s hidden under a nurse’s cap. None of them impressed her, though. Even though some of them put their best foot forward and have been trying relentlessly to woo her ever since. She just shakes her head, smiles and with endless patience and a hope in her eyes that almost makes me believe her mad and naive, and tells everyone about her boy back home. 

He is waiting for her, apparently. Why he isn’t fighting, I do not know. Maybe his parents are rich enough to bribe a doctor. That is what I would do if I were a mother. Or maybe he is really sick. She never mentions that; she just talks about his eyes and his hair and his goodness. Their love is so sweet, it’s almost sickly - I can’t really wholly believe it could happen like that, it does sound like a fairytale -- or a stroke -- but then, Cosette makes it believable. 

I told her about meeting you and she laughed very much. She didn’t believe that you would be able to hurt yourself with a blanket. You will have to show her, someday. I firmly believe that you would be able to hit your head on a cushion and cut your finger on a cloud. It is quite the skill you have. God, I wish you were here! Get better soon!

Love,

Musichetta

  
  
  


15 January, 1918

Darling,

It has been two weeks and I am getting quite worried. I do hope it is just the post that is wrong and not you. It must be the post. 

I have left Cosette and her camp behind me -- I was somewhat sad to leave her, I do hope to see her again, what a marvelous gal! -- and am now singing for some soldiers stationed in a little French town somewhere behind the border. It has been very nice to see some people that aren’t soldiers - no offence to you, darling, you are not like most of them are. The village is very nice, really, if it weren’t for the war it would feel like a vacation. The beautiful fields and the starry nights are ruined a bit by the barricades and the sounds of battle from afar. I wish to come here after all this is done - we should travel through France together, darling! I have been so curious! Rather than be here now I would have preferred it to be just for pleasure, but pleasure will just have to wait, right?

I do hope you and your little doctor are holding up well. Is he changing your bindings regularly? I have seen sepsis and I do not want to see it ever again. He should also be bringing you soup. And preferably me, some time soon. I do not know when I will be able to travel to Saint-Denis though. If I understand right, I will be headed for the south next. It is, sadly, out of my hands. 

I have met a fascinating man recently -- no worries, I am quite sure he is otherwise inclined, if you know what I mean -- who is a German deserter and has come here to flee from his battalion. The French have taken him under, and he seems to be fighting for them now. I don’t really think that was his goal, but anything better than the Germans, right?

He has some very interesting ideas about wars and countries in general, that I won’t share all here, since this letter will surely go through censorship, but that I am sure should be heard by all of you soldiers. Hi to the censor people, by the way. I do hope you enjoy reading this and have a lovely day. 

His name is Enjolras and he gave me a German book by a poet called Rilke or something of the sort. I have been trying to read it but I really do not speak German as well as I should. There is a poem called Paris and as far as I can understand the first line reads:

Sometimes in the evening (you know how that does)

When they suddenly stop and nod backwards

And show a smile like a patchwork

Under their half-hats.

I truly do not understand what he means, but I do know I want to go to Paris, if even German poets write about it. Also I do want to understand what it means to nod backwards. 

Praying that the post is slow

All the best,

Musichetta

  
  
  
  


22 January, 1918

My love, you have my utmost apologies! It was not the post that was wrong, but the lack of paper. The truck with provisions was blown up right in the middle of the road -- we couldn’t quite work out how that happened -- leaving us high and dry with no food, tobacco, or paper. We’ve been eating grass and smoking dandelions these past weeks. Today, though, the next delivery came, and I’m writing to you the first chance I got. Beside me is a tin of beans and a cup of coffee -- glorious!

I’ve been feeling low, as the pain in my leg gets worse and worse, but your stories cheered me right up. Cossette sounds marvelous indeed. I’m of the opinion that any person born of a whore is bound to have a good head on their shoulders. And as for Enjolras -- well, I’m glad you find him fascinating, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him.

Count me as clueless on that poem too -- the words have sod all to do with Paris. I suppose I ought to be writing you poetry; that would be the romantic thing to do. Let me have a go:

There once was a singer called Chetta

Her tremolo couldn’t be better

Beloved by the masses

Of all social classes

And a soldier who couldn’t forget her

...On second thought, I’ll leave it to Rilke.

My day-to-day life is not terribly exciting, but I’ll give you a general idea of the hospital. We wake, and breakfast with beans on toast (the toast is some rubbish that’s always quite stale; I thought France was supposed to have nice bread). Joly arrives to change my bandages; he looks half asleep and is rubbing his nose on his sleeve. Allergic rhinitis, he explains sheepishly, such a bother. Yesterday it was mild bronchitis, and the day before, the common cold. After the bandages are changed, he helps me out into the yard, where we sit and have a smoke (I’m half certain that the reason he spends so much time with me is to skive off working). We poke fun at Captain Theodule, who is strutting about as pompous as ever, since he has bird droppings on his cap and hasn’t realised. 

Then I go back inside and try to make conversation with Marius, the new fellow next to me. He is so serious that I can’t help riling him up. Very young, posh as anything, as primly mannered as if a strong breeze would blow him over -- yet completely unfazed by the toils of war. There’s a rumour that he stopped an advancing German battalion by threatening to blow up everyone, including himself. Impervious to shell-shock, this one is. Still, he’s got a lady friend, and spends all day writing her lengthy letters and sighing. He refuses to even tell me her name; when I asked, I was silenced with a tremendous glare.

Joly is beside me as I write this letter, and he has asked me to tell you he is very fond of music, and would very much like to hear you sing. He is always humming to himself like a bumblebee, though to be honest, his sense of tunefulness is nothing to write home about. (He has just asked me to strike that line out, but I will not.) 

I’m afraid I can’t carry on writing much longer, as Marius has used up the rest of our freshly delivered paper supply. Farewell for now, my love! Keep out of trouble, and I will do the same.

-B

  
  
  
  


31 January, 1918

Dearest,

How funny! Cosette’s beau is named Marius, too, and he also sounds prim and posh. I wonder if it’s a fad among the English genteels to give their children Latin names. She said her man is at home, so it can’t be the same fellow.

Thank you for the poem! Though it’s vibrato, not tremolo, when referring to the voice. But I suppose that would not fit the meter.

I had my longest concert yet last night, and I was dead tired this morning, but my manager woke me up to sing a bit more. I felt awful with all those men crowded around me, staring me up and down. I felt the lowest I have in a while, today. I always liked attention, when I was on the stage back at home, but something about the way they look at me makes me feel awful. They shouldn’t leer so -- I just wish they would think about how it might feel for me. Of course, being men, they never will. If only I were a soldier, it would be so much easier.

(As for you -- you can stare at me all you want)

-M

  
  
  


10 February, 1918

That was quite a short letter, love! Mine will be short as well. No news at all, and there’s a limit to how much one can describe Joly’s sneezing and Marius’s sighs.

It could be the same Marius, because this fellow enlisted very recently. It seems his grandfather got him out of conscription through some loophole, but Marius was having none of that, and ran off to join up himself. Isn’t it funny; he had no inclination of fighting until his grandfather forbade it. He’s quite the character.

You think it would be easier to be a soldier? My love, we are living but a half life, certain death is around the corner. It’s hell in these trenches, and I’ve seen things no man should have to see. I’ve even gotten my leg bloody well blown up! I’m very sorry you feel disrespected, but they are only trying to show their appreciation. You are a light amidst their darkness, that’s why they adore you.

-Bossuet

  
  
  


19 February, 1918

A light amidst their darkness, indeed! That’s exactly what I despise. If I could have it my way, I would be nameless in the trenches among the rest of you, never having to bring light to anyone. I’m not a damned light, I’m a person.

Do you think I’m just here for a lark? Believe me, I would much rather be at home. It isn’t easy being a girl on the war front. You soldiers have your camaraderie, but it doesn’t work like that for me. The moment they see a pair of breasts, and all thought of camaraderie is out the window.

I don’t mean to be grumpy, but I’ve really had enough of this war.

  
  
  
  


27 February, 1918

Chetta,

Everyone has had enough of this war.

I wasn’t trying to be argumentative, but surely you must see that life as a nameless soldier is just a bit harder than that of a renowned singer. People adore you, and with good reason, but the rest of us can feel a bit cast aside. We aren’t made to feel special, you see. That’s all I meant.

  
  
  
  


05 March, 1918

I don’t want to argue anymore.

Is that why you took to me in the first place, because you saw me as a light in the darkness? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t keep that up. You can find someone else to make you feel special.

  
  
  
  


13 March, 1918

Don’t be so cross, I’m not arguing! This is bloody pointless, having a quarrel at the pace of the French postal system. Can’t you see where I’m coming from? What you said just sounded a bit vain, that’s all.

  
  
  
  


20 March, 1918

Vain, indeed. Please do not write to me anymore.

  
  
  


25 March, 1918

Musichetta!

  
  
  


10 April, 1918

Musichetta, don’t be ridiculous.

  
  
  


10 May, 1918

Dear Miss Johnson,

I hope you will forgive me for writing you out of the blue. I am afraid I have some bad news -- Bossuet has been injured, and he is fighting for his life. I don’t want to alarm you, but I felt that it would not be fair to keep you in the dark. My fellow medics and I are trying our hardest to keep him alive, and will not give up without a fight.

All the best,

Joly

  
  
  


17 May, 1918

Dear Dr Joly,

I must say, when I saw the envelope postmarked from you, I was positive that Bossuet must be dead, so your news was somewhat of a relief.

Please don’t hesitate to write if there is any change in his condition, whether it be good or bad; I would like to know. Even if there is no change, it would comfort me to have news.

And thank you for telling me.

-Musichetta Johnson

  
  
  


24 May, 1918

Dear Miss Johnson,

His condition has not improved since I last wrote, but it has not gotten worse, so we can thank God for that. I suppose I ought to tell you what happened. We were not attacked; there was an accident with an unexploded shell, and Bossuet happened to be sitting outside the tent at the time, so he is the only one who sustained any injuries. When he wakes up -- if he wakes up -- he will make some joke about his bad luck.

I will update you again soon, and in the meantime, do not hesitate to write me about anything.

Yours,

Joly

  
  
  


01 June, 1918

Dear Dr Joly,

Anything? Anything, you say? You don’t know what gates you’ve opened, good sir. I’m an American, after all, and we waste no opportunity to speak our minds.

I’ve written and torn up this letter three times already. I don’t know what to say, except to thank you for being a good friend to Bossuet, etc, etc. So I will say it -- thank you.

I’m really trying not to despise you right now.

It’s silly, I know. But you’ve been an absolute saint, seeing the most horrific injuries all day and still finding the cheerfulness to sit by a fellow’s bedside and make conversation. And I’ve been such a beast, with no excuse for it, and now I might never get to apologize. 

How do you do it? How can you keep moving forward in the face of all this misery? It’s the ceaselessness that gets me; I could be happy if there was an end in sight, but it goes on year after year. Do you know what I would really fancy? A little farm in California, miles away from everything, where I can sit on the porch and throw seed to my chickens. Imagine that! I was always such a city girl, I had to be in the thick of the action. I don’t know what’s happening to me; I don’t understand myself anymore. I suppose I was always a bit of a narcissist, because I loved to be the center of attention on stage, but now I don’t want anyone to look at me, because I can’t keep up this act anymore.

Is that enough honesty for you? I don’t blame you if you never write back.

But if you do, please tell me more about his condition -- is he feverish? Very badly cut up from the explosion? Is he in pain?

Oh, and you can call me Musichetta.

-M

  
  
  


10 June, 1918

Dear Miss Johnson Musichetta,

He is awake!

Mon dieu, you must be a lucky charm, because I had just finished reading your letter when a cheer came from the infirmary, and I ran in to see Bossuet surrounded by medics, smiling as if nothing had happened at all.

He is still very weak, and does not yet have full function of his arms and legs, so it will take some work before he can walk again. I am working on getting him sent home to convalesce, but his condition is too precarious for him to be moved quite yet. He is not much cut up, though the wounds on his leg were re-opened, but he has sustained significant nerve damage. Still, the danger has passed.

He is quite cheerful and immediately asked for a glass of brandy, which I had to deny. I have not told him about my writing to you, since I am not sure whether you want me to do so.

(You may leave off the ‘Dr’ -- I am not a doctor, I am only a medic.)

-Joly

  
  
  


19 June, 1918

Dear Joly,

Thank God, that’s brilliant news! Please don’t tell him about my letters, since he and I are supposed to have broken it off and everything. I’m sure he doesn’t care a fig about me anymore.

‘Only’ a medic -- how can you say ‘only’, with all the lives you’ve saved?

Has he asked about me?

-M

  
  
  


24 June, 1918

Dear Musichetta,

He has not asked about you directly, though he was keen to see if any post had arrived while he was unconscious, and seemed a bit disappointed when I told him there was only a letter from his brother. Don’t you think I should tell him that you know about his mishap, at least? I feel a bit sneaky, going about it like this.

-J

  
  
  


01 July, 1918

Don’t tell him yet, not until he asks. I don’t want to seem overly keen.

In the meantime, you ought to tell me about yourself! I hardly know anything about you, except that you have lovely handwriting. Are you left-handed? It seems like it, from the way the ink blotches on the page. My sister is left-handed, but I’ve never met anyone else who was allowed to remain that way. In America at least, they make you write with your right hand. It’s quite silly, but now my sister can write with both, which I find very impressive.

  
  
  


10 July, 1918

Dear Musichetta,

Today he wrote you a letter and then tore it up. I won’t tell you what it contained, for I am obliged to keep that a secret, but you really ought to write to him and make up. You are both torturing each other, not to mention me -- I am not cut out to be a liason!

Yes, I am left-handed! I suppose most schools make one switch to the right, but my village school was tiny and did not care. When I went off to college, everyone thought my left-handedness was quite the novelty.

More about me… there’s not much worth knowing. I’m from the south of France, and my mother was always intent on me becoming a scholar, though I’m not much good at it. I slogged through university; the only thing I properly learnt was English. I studied literature, but did not try as hard as I might have, because I always knew I would inherit the farm. When the war started, I had the mad idea to become a medic, because I had some practice healing the wounded animals. Imagine that, I really thought that was sufficient preparation. I had no idea what I was getting myself into -- but then again, no one really did.

Bossuet is getting better by the day; he can now sit up in bed and is keen on getting back to the trenches. I’ve been reading the field reports every day, but they are no more informative than the news that you’ll see in the paper. Months of boundaries being pushed back and forth and back and forth, with nothing to show for it.

There is news of an illness growing in one of the nearby hospitals, so I hope it doesn’t spread here, as we have enough to deal with as it is.

Yours,

Joly

  
  
  
  
  
  


12 July, 1918

Dear Musichetta,

I am sending this letter on the heels of its predecessor to tell you that I will be spending this week in a hospital near Ypres, because they needed extra help with the sickness that cropped up there. It is very contagious, so I can only hope that I will not catch it myself. Thankfully, it does not seem to be dangerous. Most of the patients in that hospital have it, and some of the medics as well, but all it does is make them feel poorly for a few weeks, with no worsening in their condition. Still, I would rather not fall ill -- my nose is in a delicate enough condition as it is, and I don’t think it could stand the sneezing.

Pray for my health,

Joly

  
  
  
  
  


23 July, 1918

Dear Musichetta,

I’m writing this from the hospital near Ypres, where I have been for the past three days. I have not slept during those days, so you must forgive me if my words are rather scattered. I wanted to write you as soon as I could, in case something terrible happens.

As I told you in the previous letter, I was called here for a week to help with the illnesses. It was quite tiresome with sick people everywhere, but as I told you before, the condition of the invalids does not worsen. Then I was sent back to Saint-Denis according to plan, and I thought that was the end of it.

Three days later, I was called upon in the middle of the night and told there was an emergency at Ypres. They drove me over in a cart, and I arrived just at dawn. The medic who brought me inside was frantic. ‘They keep dying,’ he told me, ‘I don’t know how to stop it, they just keep dying.’ I had no idea what he was talking about until I saw the inside of the hospital, the beds full of writhing invalids, and bodies lined up against the wall, some of them stacked on top of each other to make room. As I was standing there in shock, the man in the closest bed to me, who had been tossing and turning fretfully, suddenly gave a great cry and went limp, his eyes wide open. That is how it happens, a sudden shock as the body gives up fighting, and I saw countless more deaths of the same matter. No one understands it; it’s not like any fever that has been seen before.

I don’t quite know why I was so desperate to write to you, except there is no one else I can tell. I can’t very well write to my mother about this, for she would be frightened to death. I’m not frightened, necessarily, just a bit shocked. I felt that I needed to tell someone outside what is happening.

I do hope you’re taking care of yourself,

Joly

  
  
  


01 August, 1918

Dear Joly,

I’m terribly sorry that you are going through this, it sounds very difficult. I didn’t know that a fever could cause someone to drop dead. That’s always been a fear of mine, just dropping dead, without having a chance to realise I am dying. It’s silly, I know.

I’m afraid I don’t much know what to say, except that I will pray for your health and the recovery of your patients. Please try to rest as much as you can, sleeplessness will not solve anything.

All my wishes with you,

M

  
  
  
  
  
  


11 August, 1918

Dear Musichetta,

I am still at Ypres. They would not let me go back to Saint-Denis, in case I am contagious. I am still tending the patients, although there is not much that can be done besides palliative care, so it is mostly a great deal of waiting -- waiting for them to die, waiting for myself to get sick and die. A few medics take ill every day, so there are fewer and fewer of us remaining.

It is the waiting that is hardest for me. When I was busy, there was no time to be frightened, but now I have hours to think of the disease all around me. I can feel it on my skin and in my blood, feel it creeping into my lungs and brain. I must check myself for a fever a hundred times a day now, knowing that one of these times, the heat that I feel will be real.

Please don’t apologise for being selfish. I have been feeling such a coward, because working in a hospital never bothered me until I came under threat of illness myself. If that is not selfish, I don’t know what is. Perhaps we all are a bit self-centred, when it comes down to it.

Dropping dead… yes, I know that fear well, and a dozen others besides. Being afflicted with an infection, losing one’s breath to consumption, swelling with dropsy, plagued from within by cancer… there are so many ways to die. I am not a brave person, you know. There is a reason I enlisted to be a medic. 

When I am trying to fall asleep, do you know what I do? I imagine hearing you sing. It is embarrassing to admit, but true. I have no idea what your voice sounds like, because I never had the opportunity to hear one of your concerts, but I can almost hear it. It is a sweet voice, but not a girlish one, powerful and full of joy. I hope you will sing at my funeral, when all of this is over.

I promise I will stop being morbid now, because I really would like to know how you have been. Tell me about the things you have seen, the more trivial, the better. I would like to take my mind off suffering for a bit.

Yours,

Joly

  
  
  
  


20 August, 1918

Poor Joly! I’ve been reading reports of the illness in the papers, and it does sound ghastly. They say that patients’ bodies are essentially killing themselves by fighting so hard against the disease.

You are not a coward, you are so brave, and the patients are lucky to have you there. I will not promise to sing at your funeral, because I will sing for you many times while we are both alive! You must count on that; anticipating the worst won’t help anything. This will pass, and soon we will be singing together.

As for trivialities, there is not much to say. I am back in Verdun, where I met Enjolras -- have I told you about him? I can’t remember. He is a German deserter who is fighting for the French. It sounds unbelievable, I know, for any rational French battalion would have killed him without stopping to ask questions, or sent him away to a prison camp. Seeing him, it’s not so very surprising. There is something inhuman about him, breathtaking and otherworldly, and even when he returns from the thick of the fighting, he escapes the mud and muck that the others are doused in. It’s as if he is an angel sent to help our cause. 

Something happened recently which shook me up a bit. There was a deserter in the camp, a young man who ran off during the night and was found wandering in No Man’s Land the next morning. He could not have been more than eighteen. Normally, his punishment would not have been too harsh, but his presence alerted the enemy to the layout of the trenches, and they attacked when we were least expecting it. We lost a lot of ground, and a great many people died.

When the dust had settled, there was the problem of what to do about the deserter, because it was necessary that he be killed for what he had done. No one wanted to carry it out, until Enjolras volunteered. That’s right, a deserter volunteered to kill another man for desertion. He shot him dead on the spot without a sign of regret, not the slightest human emotion in his face. I thought it was horribly cruel and frightening, and I could not remember why I had liked him in the first place.

I found him later in one of the empty dugouts, and he was crying -- yes, actually crying. I did not want to embarrass him, but I could not resist asking how he had done it. He told me that one must have faith in what is right, even if it requires terrible actions. It would have been more selfish, he said, to refuse to be the executioner. Justice will always prevail. I don’t know why, but that made me feel a bit hopeful.

I mentioned you and the sickness in your hospital, and he asked me to tell you to not give up hope. He said his best friend is a medic for the Germans, and is the bravest man he knows. I don’t quite understand how this fits in with his desertion or his ideas about justice, but I thought it was a nice sentiment, nonetheless.

-M

  
  
  
  
  


5 September, 1918

Is everything all right? I haven’t heard from you in over two weeks. Usually the post is slow, but not this slow. I hope you’re not angry about my last letter; I didn’t mean to trivialise what you are going through. I suppose it was rather condescending, looking back on it. I shouldn't have said that things will get better, because I have no idea if they will.

Or did the story about Enjolras put you off? If it’s any consolation, it put me off, as well. I could never shoot a man dead like that.

-M

  
  
  


15 September, 1918

?????

  
  
  
  


20 September, 1918

Dear Miss Johnson,

I’m afraid your friend has taken ill. He is shut up at Ypres and he is not allowed to correspond with anyone, though the other medics there are keeping me updated. He does not seem in danger of dying presently, though you’ve heard how it goes with this disease.

I am only writing to inform you of his state. I’m well aware of your feelings toward myself.

Regards, &c.

  
  
  


25 September, 1918

Bossuet, you absolute beast!

I can read your trivial pettiness between the lines, and I think it’s reprehensible. ‘Miss Johnson’ my ass. And who cares about my feelings towards you? Joly might die, Bossuet. He really might die. My God, I’m beside myself.

I suppose you’re upset that he and I have been corresponding? For your information, I have the right to write to anyone I please, without your permission. And how on earth did you find out, have you been reading his post?

(Thank you for telling me)

-M

  
  
  


1 October, 1918

Musichetta,

I’m sorry. That’s what I really wanted to say, that I’m sorry, only I bunged it up because I’m worried. They say there’s a fifty percent chance of death. Fifty percent!

I’m not upset that you wrote to Joly, in fact, I’m rather pleased about it. He’s a fine fellow. I only found out because they sent your last two letters here, since Joly is unfit to answer, and Ypres is not allowed to receive or send post.

I don’t know what else to say, I’m bloody miserable, and I’m sure you are too.

-B

  
  
  


7 October, 1918

Bossuet,

You’d better be sorry, because I missed you terribly. I’m sorry, too. When I found out you were wounded again, I was terribly guilty for the things I had said. I have never been skilled at putting my feelings into writing; I communicate better through a kiss.

Please tell me anything and everything about his condition; my day centers around the arrival of the post.

-M

  
  
  


10 October, 1918

Dearest Chetta, he is out of danger!

The fever passed last night, and he is sleeping soundly now. He still has a cough, but there is no chance of him dropping dead like those other poor sods. I can do nothing but sit here and smile like an idiot.

No one communicates through a kiss quite like you. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you visiting, and reminding me of your skill?

  
  
  
  


15 October, 1918

Oh, thank God! What a relief! I’m actually crying out of happiness, as I’m sure you can tell by the blotches on the paper. Enjolras is staring at me as if, of the two of us, I am the one who is odd.

How funny, I was just thinking the same thing! I suggested to my manager that we return to Saint-Denis for a concert, since it has been such a long time, and he readily agreed. I will be with you in no time at all!

Until then, an inkblot for a bisous,

M

  
  
  
  
  


26 October, 1918

Dear Joly,

We (that’s right, WE) are wishing you the very best recovery! I (Musichetta, as I’m sure you can tell by the penmanship) arrived at the ADS last night, and was overjoyed to find Bossuet in one piece. You have certainly mended him well! Technically, I am supposed to be here for the sole purpose of giving a concert, but obviously seeing Bossuet was my main reason for coming. I will hand the letter over to him.

Hello, old chap! I hope you’re resting well, God knows you need it. From what Musichetta told me, it sounds as though you’ve been worked nearly to death; no wonder you fell ill. The fellows from Ypres told me you had been sent home to convalesce, and were kind enough to provide your address. Is it nice being back with your family?

I’ve heard rumours of a ceasefire, though we shouldn’t get our hopes up yet. I’m already preparing myself for a winter in the trenches. Say, were you in Saint-Merry in 1916? I heard half the regiment ended up losing their toes to frostbite. That sounds like an interesting situation to treat -- toes coming off everywhere.

Do let us know how you’re doing, and keep a stiff upper lip! A little fever is no match for you.

Yours,

Bossuet and Musichetta

  
  
  
  


11 November, 1918

Dear Bossuet and Musichetta,

The 11th of November -- I’m certain this day will be remembered for many years to come. And here I am sitting in bed in my pyjamas and eating chocolates.

You know how difficult it is to get chocolate these days. Well, it turns out my parents have saved up a whole mess of it -- they weren’t hoarding, they simply forgot about it. Forgetting chocolate, imagine that! I’ve been desperate to have some ever since I returned home, but I was too ill for it until this morning. Now, I will indulge. Armistice at last!

How are things in the hospital, is there a great deal of celebration? I hope someone has been able to procure a strong drink. You’ll need it especially, Musichetta, as I’m sure they are making you sing constantly.

When you’re healed, Bossuet, you must both come and visit. I’ve told my parents all about you, and they are quite enthusiastic to meet you, for they have never met a Briton or American. Neither of them speak English, but they will cook you a very nice bouillabaisse.

What then? I don’t know. I have half a mind that things will not get better, at least not right away. I keep thinking that the armistice won’t last, or that the fever will keep spreading -- I’ve heard that it’s cropped up in Marseilles. 

And what of us? It was the war that brought us together, wasn’t it? If it hadn’t been for the war, we would not have met (though you and I have still not met properly, M!). It’s normal life that will drive us apart, when you go back to England and America and we will all be very far away from each other. I suppose we might find that circumstance is the only thing that binds us together.

Even if that is so, to regret the circumstances is not something I will waste my time on. Today is a day for celebration!

I will say adieu for now; old Monsieur Mabouf from next door has arrived with some books for me to read.

A Very Jolly Joly

  
  
  


20 November, 1918

Joly,

You can’t escape from us that quickly. Circumstances, indeed! Who says we need to go back to normal life right away? God knows the world won’t, too much has changed.

I’ve been cleared to travel, and we are en route to Occitania. Prepare the bouillabaisse!

Musichetta is making a big production out of packing; I will give her a kiss from you. Before long, the three of us will be together at last.

-B


End file.
